The Most Human Human Being
by vickitata14
Summary: John sits at Sherlock's bedside in the hospital and wonders if he will ever understand this man who seems so incapable of human emotion. Why does Sherlock Holmes make him feel so sad sometimes? NO SLASH. S3E3.


**This is my first ever Sherlock fanfiction. It's not so much a story as an expression of thoughts/feelings I had while watching S3E3. Takes place in the middle of that episode, and I have borrowed some lines from the script thereof. Credit of course goes to the creators and writers of ****_Sherlock. _****I do not own any part of it; I just like to express my feelings.**

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_'Did you just get engaged to break into an office?'_

_'She loves you.'_

_'...human error..."_

John Watson sighed loudly in frustration. He wasn't sure why these words rattled around his brain at a time like this. Sherlock Holmes lay motionless on the hospital bed before him, more pale and gaunt than John had ever seen him-if that was possible. A veritable cocktail of drugs streamed into him through a carefully regulated IV, and the steady blip of the heart monitor was the only assurance that the detective in fact still lived. If his chest rose and fell in the steady, shallow breaths that the machine indicated, the movement remained imperceptible to his friend.

The outright fear was gone. The vestiges of adrenaline left John's body like a coiled spring and his nerves like live wires, but that manifested itself mostly in fidgeting and abrupt changes of position. He breathed evenly, and his heart rate, though perhaps slightly elevated, no longer beat violently against his ribcage. Sherlock had been shot, yes, but the doctors said he would make a full recovery, and, being a doctor himself, John had every confidence in that prognosis.

Furthermore, and remarkably so, the swarm of questions: Who shot him? Why? Where were they now? had faded to the background. As he gazed upon his unconscious friend, he thought not on the mystery of the event, but-as he so often did-on the mystery of the man. His musings made his heart ache.

It went without saying that John had been shocked to discover Sherlock's "relationship" with Janine. The idea was foreign, ridiculous, even. John knew better than anybody that Sherlock could put on the most skillful of acts, but he also knew that he never did so without a purpose. And as he sat, shellshocked, in the flat at 221B Baker Street, he could divine no purpose in Janine's intimate positioning on Sherlock's lap. Nor, for that matter, could he detect any signs of falsity in Sherlock's behavior towards Janine. Ordinarily, one would conclude the obvious. But Sherlock Holmes was no ordinary man, and something did not add up.

John, however, could not identify the missing factor, and Sherlock bluntly quelled his doubts before he had a chance to properly express them. It was not until he heard Janine's voice over the intercom for Charles Magnussen's office that everything fell into place. He did not need Sherlock's impassive explanation of "human error," to figure out the purpose of this facade. It was no more than was ever to be expected of Sherlock, yet his heart sank, and his stomach clenched when his friend produced the ring box; he actually felt as though he might be sick.

_'Did you just get engaged to break into an office?'_

_'Yeah.'_

_'Sherlock, she loves you.'_

_'Like I said-human error.'_

Objections whirled through John's mind, but he discarded them, one after another. Not one of them would ever work on Sherlock; the total lack of expression in his eyes said as much. If he had any idea what this would do to Janine, the knowledge clearly did not bother him. Something dark and heavy settled in the pit of John's stomach. Sherlock Holmes would gladly accept the responsibility for his actions, but it was John Watson who would feel the shame.

John had felt this before of course, but as he stared vacantly at his invalid friend, he felt it particularly keenly, and more than the slow, uncomfortable burn of a guilty conscience. A tightness in his chest smacked of the pangs of heartbreak. He labored slightly to draw in a deep breath and let it out again evenly. He could not fathom why this strange and yet so quintessentially "Sherlock" encounter should make him feel so sad.

He heard the door open behind him and felt a gentle hand come to rest on his shoulder. Mary said nothing, only tried to channel her love and comfort to her husband through her touch. As John reached across himself to cover her hand with his own, it occurred to him that this was what people did. They were all brimming with emotions, cares, concerns, wishes. They all looked for a hand to hold, whether literally or metaphorically, to share what was inside them before they burst.

_Except Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock walked alone. He held no hand, he shared no feelings. The episode with Janine had been an illusion, and a rather poor one at that, looking back on it. Yet somewhere beneath the instinctive, well-founded skepticism, an irrational spark of hope had ignited, only to be promptly and dispassionately extinguished by a man totally unaware of what he had done. Sherlock Holmes was quite literally an impossible man; on days like this, one could not believe that he was human.

Yet John Watson knew that he was, and he knew it because such heavy sadness came only from great love. Beneath it all, somehow, Sherlock was human, and John loved him fiercely for it. So he placed his hand over Sherlock's and gripped tightly.

"Wake up."


End file.
